The Wooden Spoon
A Fictional Autobiographical Novel
by
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PROLOGUE (July 30, 1967) Maria Meraposo crossed the kitchen of her Bronx home to give the slowly simmering sausages and meatballs a gentle turn with her wooden spoon. Her best friend and sister-in-law, Malea, sat at the kitchen table, her snow white hair glowing from the sunlight beaming through the windows at her back. Her large meaty fingers moved daintily as she lightly brushed lemon rind around the rim of her cup of expresso while she gave a rapid fire recount of the latest gossip. Maria marveled that even after fifty-four years, Malea still could spout a fountain of information, just as they did when they were young, always over coffee, and always at the kitchen table. It was Sunday and soon the house would be filled with children, grandchildren, great grand-children and even a great-great granddaughter, Nancy Kim, who was born on Maria’s birthday, just two weeks ago. Nancy Kim’s birth was an especially unique event since it marked five generations of Meraposo women. An appealing human interest item, local newspapers published articles and photos, which Maria proudly framed, placing them strategically in full view of all who entered her home. Shortly, the family will began to trickle in; the delightful, familiar din of confusion as excited, happy greetings fill the house with the bonds of love. The children, after properly kissing each family member, will run free. Slamming doors will sound their entrances and exits as they scurry about during a break in kick-the-can or whatever game they invent to play. Wary of Maria’s ominous wooden spoon, they’ll seek a drink or a pre-meal snack from their mothers or an aunt. The men, meanwhile, will settle in the living room to watch the ballgame on television as their grumbling stomachs await the call to eat. They’ll talk about hunting and fishing, sports, news, their jobs, and brag about their children. The women will sit around the kitchen table, and the old stories will flow like wine, remembering both the good and bad times. For each are equally important to a family so that future generations would never forget where they came from, and have a clearer concept of where they should be going.... CHAPTER ONE
THE MERAPOSO’S - July 30, 1913
Sitting topside with her infant son Gaspare close to her body, Maria gazed out over the expansive ocean. She watched the sun slowly make it’s way westward over the water. Like a beacon, it sparkled a shimmering path, a sequined highway of salt and brine, a heavenly sign that showed Maria the way to her new home.
“There,” she thought in her native Sicilian tongue, “There, where the sky kisses the sea, a new land calls to us. Like Signore Columbo we will be, coming to a place where even the poorest of the poor walk upon golden streets. There ... there.” She sighed contentedly as she focused on the horizon, remembering to thank God, the Madonna and Saint Christopher for seeing them safely through their long journey, soon to end. It had been a difficult voyage from Tunis to London. Steaming through the Straits of Gibraltar, storms created a violent sea which amplified the yaw, pitch and roll of the ship and made Maria’s stomach strongly - and nearly continually - object. Boarding the ship that would take them from London to America, Maria prayed that the seas would be calmer. They’re traveling 3rd class, tightly packed with hundreds in the dank underbelly of the swaying craft and sweltering amidst the stagnant air soured by the pungent redolence of unwashed bodies. They’re little more - and sometimes less - then cargo. But they were very profitable cargo indeed. For there was no need to shower these passengers with the opulent amenities enjoyed by the wealthy who traveled 1st class high above them. Within the bowels of the ship, a noisome aria of tongues swirled about like autumn leaves on a windy afternoon. There were quite a few other Italians on the voyage. Most Italians traveled directly to America from Italy. But many, like Maria’s family, came in a roundabout way. The Italians, indeed all the different nationals, tended to congregate together. They would passionately debate everything; from which side was in the right in an ancient feudal war to why his province’s cheese was best, wine was smoother and pronunciation of a word was correct. It was Rosario, Maria’s husband, who halted confrontations he was unwittingly drawn into. “Tell me, Signore ... you … little man, who sits quietly like a woman! Tell us ... who do you think is right?” they questioned.
“What does it matter?” Rosario would reply, ‘Famicia,’ ‘Famiglia,’ or ‘Familia?’ Soon we will all be speaking American and say ‘Family’... no? " Realization that they were all united by a common dream quickly brought arguments to a halt and ended what Maria considered a most entertaining afternoon. The group dispersed, each contemplating a better life.
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About the Book
The Wooden Spoon is, in essence, an “Italian Roots.” The story traces the arrival of an Italian family from Sicily to America. Using actual historical events as a backdrop, we follow the family from being immigrants to fully “mainstream” Americans without them ever loosing their rich Italian culture. Because the book is based on unverified stories told around the kitchen table [hence the changing of surnames], as well as actual events, The Wooden Spoon is a compelling blend of fiction and non-fiction; a multi-cultural experience within a semi-autobiographical memoir. In many respects, it is also a woman’s story as well as the primary characters are women. The books title is derived from the women cooking in the kitchen, with an ever present wooden spoon, or at the kitchen table with coffee gossiping away. You’ll watch Maria and Rosario’s six children grow and raise their own families; their eldest daughter‘s (the authors mother and grandmother) youngest child (the author) meeting the man she’ll marry at the books conclusion. Along the way, the reader will bond with the family, making them their own. They’ll share countless laughs and spill many tears as they spend 54 years with the family. Another property of the book is that it embraces the beloved aspects of the “Godfather” type stories with very, very little Mafia references. It was the psychodynamics of an Italian family which sustained those stories. Here, the family IS the story. If you liked Moonstruck, you'll love The Wooden Spoon.
About the Author
Rosalie Marino DeMonte Rosalie Marino DeMonte led a full and robust life before inflammatory breast cancer took her life at age 68 on May 17, 2006. She was the daughter of Anna and Tony, the granddaughter of Rosario and Maria, Umberto and Vincenzina. She married Arthur E. DeMonte in 1956. In the late 1960’s she was a keyboardist and vocalist in a rock group, The End Result, which her husband managed. She worked at home in the 1970’s as a typist for a computer company which developed into a management position. Also in the 70’s, she was a member of a classical choral ensemble. In the 80’s, she was a landscape artist working in oil. Finally, in the 90’s she was a member of The Golden Apple Chorus, a Sweet Adeline, performing Barber Shop music, where she served two terms as President. Her first authorships were the plays for the chorus’ annual stage show, which she also directed. She decided to write this book - before she was stricken with cancer - in order that her family’s colorful history might be preserved. Arthur A. DeMonte Arthur A. DeMonte is the eldest child of Rosalie and Arthur. He's worked as a psychiatric social worker with mentally ill / chemically addicted populations. Artie is also a musician who plays drums, guitar, keyboards, bass, harmonica, wood flute and digital saxophone. He is a published and award winning songwriter, one of which was co-written with his wife, Jeanne. Asked by his mother to help her give the book a more universal appeal, this book became his first foray into writing in a “long format,” and became a labor of love to complete after his mother’s passing. Artie lives in Pleasantville, New York with his wife and semi-owned cat in an apartment below his father.